


Domestic Demonology: I read a prompt about a demon basically moving in with a blind old lady and this my take

by plaguling



Category: Original Work
Genre: Annette - Freeform, But no one we care about yet, Canix, Demons, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Goofball Angels, Hellish Bureaucracy, Jezir, Nonbinary demons, OCs - Freeform, Old Ladies, Probably Hellhounds at Some Point, Todd - Freeform, people die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21052790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguling/pseuds/plaguling
Summary: He's a burned-out, corporate fiend literally spawned from the pits of Hell.She's a lonely, blind, old lady who mistakes this demon for her grandson, Todd.What could go wrong? It's not like he has more enemies than he can count and she certainly doesn't have any skeletons in her closet!...it'll be fine.***I think the prompt demon's name was Todd? I really don't know, this has gotten away from me at this point. Either way, it starts with an blind old lady accidentally summoning a demon to her home, mistaking him for her grandson, and they bond. There may or may not be a hell-hound at a later date. Stay tuned.





	1. Domestic Demonology

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this, let me know, otherwise I'm liable to drop writing it. I write, primarily, for myself, so if there is no outside interest, I'll stop writing it when I get bored. 
> 
> Cool of you to read, much appreciate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collecting a soul goes exactly as planned and someone gets their coat ruined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that I want a better intro and this is that better intro. Hopefully it gives a bit more insight into "Todd" and, of course, the obligatory bureaucracy he's beholden to.

She’s tucked into the covers and reading _Atlas Shrugged_, nightcap poised in her left hand, when she hears a knock at her bedroom door. She freezes, all senses suddenly on high alert.

_Early. I should have accounted for that,_ she thinks, taking a fortifying sip from the tumbler and setting the book on the side table. From the drawer she pulls out a handgun and quietly checks the clip. _Full. Just as I left it. _She takes a breath, _Easy, Miranda. You’ve been preparing for this. _She spares a moment to nod at the closet, brunette bob dipping gently with the motion.

“Who is it?” she calls with a slight southern twang, eyes glued to the door, the hand holding the gun slipped out of sight behind her night shift.

There is a pause before a gurgling laugh can be heard through the heavy wood of the door. “_Room service_,” a deep, warbling voice responds.

Miranda tips her chin high and proud, “Last I recall, I didn’t hire staff at this residence. Perhaps you should turn in an application at my Florida estate if you’re so inclined.” She curls her finger around the trigger of the gun, thumb brushing against the safety to ensure it’s off.

Another voice responds this time; Miranda recognizes this one. It’s masculine, a gentle tenor that hides the nature of the monster underneath. “Come now, darling, we do have other engagements this evening.”

Miranda makes no sound and no move towards the door, every muscle in her body taut as a guy wire. She watches as the handle turns, chest heaving and adrenaline coursing through her body. _Run, _it seems to say, _while you can_. She ignores the siren call of the hormone coursing through her veins.

The door presses open and a man walks into the room. He is petit, neat, and his clothes, while more suited to the Victorian era, are immaculate. However, it takes only a cursory examination to realize that he is very much _not_ human. In the dimly lit room, the slight luminescence of his skin is apparent and the demon makes no effort to hide his horns or red, goat-like eyes to his prey. His talons sink into the plush carpet with his every step.

One corner of Miranda’s plump lips curls up in a half smile, “You let your mommy dress you again?”

“It’s really not my fault this era has no sense of taste,” he replies in a clipped tone, “Now on to busine…” The demon is unable to finish the sentence as Miranda swings the gun in front of her and fires a round into the demon’s chest. The bullet lodges itself below his clavicle but above his heart, a small trickle of red soaking the front of his frock coat.

An exasperated look crosses his face but is quickly replaced with one of pain and surprise. “What in the nine Hells…” he grits out through clenched teeth. He touches a hand to the wound, pulls it away bloody, and looks at it in disbelief. He drops to a knee and looks up at Miranda with confusion and anger in his eyes. She levels the gun at the space between the demon’s eyes.

“I’d tell you to pray to your god for forgiveness, but we already know how he feels about you and your kind,” she says.

Her finger starts to squeeze the trigger when it’s her turn to be interrupted.

From the ceiling drops a figure landing squarely on Miranda right before the gun fires. The shot goes wild; Miranda and the creature tumble to the floor. It’s humanoid but huge, skin pigmented a dark blue with glowing red eyes and a mess of white hair that seems to have a life of its own. It has a sagging belly that flops like an empty wineskin. It begins to giggle, opening a thin lipped mouth with an alarming number of teeth. It has her pinned and her gun is out of her reach.

“_Thought it could escape_,” he gibbers, “_Was wrong, none escape Marrownix!_” She scrabbles for the gun, putrid breath from the demon stinging her eyes. Marrownix’s mouth begins to gape open, impossibly open, as if it meant to swallow her whole. Her fingers can touch the handle; she tries to pull it to her grasp.

As Marrownix’s mouth opens to its fullest extent, another gunshot echoes through the room. The demon lets out a shriek and is thrown back allowing Miranda to kick her way out from under its bulk. She turns to the closet where a man is now emerging, shotgun in his hand. Marrownix is bleeding from the roof of its mouth, a bullet lodged in the back of its palate. The man puts another round in the demon’s head, this time blowing through cheek and up further into the skull. Marrownix clutches at his head, then falls, labored breathing wheezing through extra face holes. Miranda points her gun at Marrownix but begins to relax as his breathing slows.

The man, tall and well-built, reloads his shotgun.

“Told you holy water would do the trick. They don’t go deep, but liquid filled bullets will do in a pinch,” he says as he slings the gun over his shoulder and pulls a sliver hatchet from his belt. “You might want to leave the room for this part.”

Realizing that he means to ensure the downed demons stay dead, Miranda offers him a curt nod. “Now that you mention it, I do believe a shower may be in order.”

“Here,” he says and hands her a thin, heavy tube about 10 feet long and filled with what looks like white sand. “It’s filled with salt. Make a ring around where you’ll be, just in case.”

Miranda nods and takes the salt rope, heading for the bathroom. She enters the master bathroom and tosses the rope on the ground as giggles begin to bubble up from her chest. She covers her mouth with her hands to cover a wide smile.

“I did it,” she says with astonishment, “I really did it!”

She reaches over to where her phone is resting on the counter, unplugs it, and punches in a few numbers. As the phone rings, she presses her back against one tiled wall and slides to sit on the ground and heaves a sigh of relief.

“Anthony!” she says as the man at the other end picks up, “Oh my god!”

“Oh my god! You’re okay?”

“More than okay! We are going to have to run a special. _Televangelist Survives Demon Attack_, can you imagine the headlines? The donations?”

“We could buy that fleet of planes you’re always banging on about. Did uh… the brawny fellow, hunts demons, ugly as sin…?”

“Jerimiah.”

“Did good old Jerry leave anything left of the buggers?”

Miranda lets out a low chuckle as she stands and places the phone facing up on the counter, “I’m putting you on speaker. Anyhow, I left him in the bedroom taking the heads clean off the damn things.”

“Oh my God! Could you imagine if we had a _demon head _on the program?”

“We’d have to pull off a neat trick with the producers to get them to allow anything gory on the program…” She begins slipping off the night shift, letting the soiled garment fall to the side. It smells like Marrownix’s rancid breath and Miranda is glad to be rid of it.

“No worries, I know a guy. If we have live proof of a demon, there is nothing he won’t do to get it on the air.”

Miranda leans into the shower to start the water. “That’s why we pay you the big bucks, hun,” she says, hand testing the temperature, “Can you update Merrill on out situation?” She retracts her hand and shakes it off, “Anthony?”

“I’m afraid he’s rather indisposed at the moment,” replies a voice that’s cold and sharp as a knife. She turns to see the smaller demon tapping the ‘end call’ button on her phone. “Also, you may find it interesting to note, that holy water only retains its full potency in the presence of righteous individuals,” the demon turns to look pointedly at Miranda. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Miranda freezes, breath caught in her chest. “Where is Jeremiah?”

The demon cocks an eyebrow and spares a glance in the direction of the bedroom. “The hunter? I’m not quite sure, but he’s most likely somewhere in Marrownix’s upper digestive tract. However, Marri is a messy eater who likes to play with his food, so I wouldn’t put money on that.

“Now,” he says as he pulls what looks like a business card from his breast pocket, “I believe I have fulfilled my terms of our contract,” he levels a look at the card and reads: “Fame and power. Wealth. Youth and beauty. From our termination investigation, it appears that you have been assisted in the acquisition all these things. Now,” he flips the card to the inverse side, “You have, in turn, promised your immortal soul to my master, Lucifer. Would you like to come quietly with me or shall I call Marrownix?”

…

Soul reaped, the demons stand in the hall. Marrownix is using an oversized finger to scrawl a summoning circle on the wall as the smaller demon frets over the bloodstain on his chest.

“This is my good coat,” the demon hisses, “I’ve had this for over 150 years. Damn humans and their lack of appreciation for the finer things in life.” He picks at the stain, weighing the options of a minor hex to clear it up and the abundance of paperwork that a petty spell would incur.

“_Cleaning imp team comes. They fix._”

The small demon snorts. “Imps couldn’t clean their own asses to save their miserable lives.” The paperwork is worth it, he decides, and with a snap of his fingers, the blood is gone and the coat is whole.

“_Canix, me. We get drinks after work. Want come?_”

The pale demon thinks for a moment and opens his mouth to agree – the barfights when Canix and Marrownix go out together are legendary – but he feels a familiar tug that makes his gut twist.

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid I’m being summoned.”

“_No rest for wicked_.”

“Then I shall never sleep again.” With a wave of his hand, he turns his back on Marrownix and the sudden flood of imps through the summoning circle on the wall and vanishes.


	2. Cake & Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of cake and confusion

“Uptown girl! She’s been living in her white bread world...”

The first thing he notices is the phonograph playing Golden Oldies off of some god-forsaken record. Somewhere behind the falsettos that were better left in the past, he can hear water running from deeper in the house. Whose house? He does not know. As with most summonings, it’s all quite sudden; one second you’re torturing the damned, the next you’re putting the fear of god into some pimply teenagers. Well, at least most of the time. So far, he seems to be lacking the pimply teenagers this time around.

“As long as anyone with hot-blood can…”

The second thing he observes is the smell of this godforsaken place: dust, a pumpkin spice candle, and old people. Well, more specifically one old person with a penchant for Vera Wang knock-off perfumes. He crinkles his nose, Vera’s powerful fumes assailing his delicate senses, and looks around the room for the tasteless witch who summoned him. However, the room appears to have no current occupants other than himself.

“And now she’s looking for a downtown man…”

The third thing he notes is the inhabitant’s unfortunate penchant for 70’s interior design. The awful floral wallpaper that covers the walls is visible only in thin strips between archaic curio cabinets, bookshelves riddled with knick-knacks, and photographs of family members. Thin, cream-colored drapes cover the single-paned windows that face onto the street. There are some stained, overstuffed corduroy couches crowding around the scratched, doily covered coffee table; the table itself is strewn with Martha Stewart magazines, a black and red crocheted affair, and empty tea mugs (one of which is shattered). 

“That’s what I am!”

He puts on his meanest scowl, throwing an evil glare at the phonograph. “Thank you, Billy Joel, that will be all for today,” he spits. The machine sputters to a screeching halt, then spontaneously combusts. “Now onto more pressing matters.” He straightens his top hat to sit primly over his petit horns and smooths out his frock coat. He checks that the black satin spats looped around his clawed bare feet are still in place and, naturally, they are. On the off chance he’s about to meet with a high level practitioner or a CEO looking to sell his soul, he wishes to look the part. 

Music duly silenced, he has a moment to take in the sounds more keenly. There is very clearly the sound of running water coming from what he presumes to be the kitchen. He thinks he can also detect what might be...stale sponge cake? He really isn’t sure, everything smells like that god-awful candle, Vera Wang’s cheap cousin, and now burning plastic, courtesy of the phonograph.

He narrows his eyes in suspicion. Either this is a bizarre trap or he’s gracing the presence of the worst witch he’s ever met. He steps delicately forward, toe talons sinking into the ancient, faded-orange shag carpet. Quietly, he makes a full turn, taking in the full room. This is definitely a step away from stupid teenagers in abandoned barns. He can’t decide if he prefers the barns or whatever madhouse this could be.

Something on one of the bookshelves catches his eye: a tiny glass figurine of what appears to be a fat baby with wings and a bow. He walks over to it, picking it up and turning it over in his hands with amusement. Angel, he finally realizes with a sneer, this stupid thing is what humans think an angel looks like. I’ll save it and show it to Bezor, he’ll get a kick out of it. 

He’s preparing to toss the little glass trinket into an interdimensional pocket, not noticing the petit old lady padding up behind him, slippered feet muffled on the orange carpet.  
“Todd!” she blurts, making the demon jump and miss his throw, sending the cherub sailing through the air and landing with a small crunch on the far side of the room. The old woman does not seem to notice. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

The way she squints through her bifocals, the demon isn’t sure she’s seen anything in ages. After all, even in a modestly-sized humanoid form, most people notice the horns; the claws; the red goat eyes; and the slightly iridescent skin, almost as if a living flame moved in lieu of blood under the dermis. 

“My word, you’ve gotten taller!” She bustles over, smile stretching into familiar lines on her old face. Much to his surprise, she grabs his face in her frail hands, then giving him a quick peck on each cheek. “And adorable outfit, love, I can say that I’m quite a fan of this ‘steam-funk’ your mother writes me about.” 

The demon is quite taken aback. This old woman doesn’t seem to have any notion that she’s somehow summoned a creature of Hell into her living room. As he sits stunned, the woman takes his hand and starts to lead him into her kitchen. 

“So tell me what brings you here? I haven’t heard from Martha since...goodness, it must have been Christmas? I must have missed her usual Easter newsletter. You should have told me you were coming over, I’d have tidied up a bit!”

Realization dawns on the demon’s face as she pulls out a chair and indicates he sit, which he does. As she babbles on and busies herself around the kitchen, he realizes that somehow he’s been mistaken for a relation to this woman; in fact, after thinking about it, he could probably pick out this “Todd” fellow from the family pictures that line the living room. Tall, lanky, pale, and pimply. The exact type of person he’d expect to be on the opposite side of a summoning such as this. His train of thought is abruptly derailed as the woman shoves a piece of over-iced, intricately flowered vanilla sponge cake in front of him.

“Here’s your cake, love,” she says as she places an equally gratuitous piece in front of herself and takes a seat across from the demon. 

The demon looks to the woman, to the cake, and then back. “I do not recall asking for cake, crone.”

“My, such language” the woman cuts him off with a smile, tiny dessert fork poised in her tiny hand. “Your mother told me that you were going through something of a rebellious phase, but ‘crone’ is hardly a way to address one’s grandmother. Nana will suffice. Now dig in.” As for herself, she takes the fork and plunges it into her slice, hefting out a bite of cake that must be at least ninety-percent icing and shoveling it into her mouth. 

“And what do I need to do in return for this...cake?” The demon traces his claw-tips lightly across the china plate in mild distaste. He’s trying to weigh exactly how much demonic power one could ask in return for this horrid human confection and the amount is pitiably small, perhaps even negative. 

Nana’s happy face goes somewhat stern for a moment (or at least as stern as one can be with their mouth full of cake), but she brushes the expression off and affects something lighter in the blink of an eye. She swallows, puts down her fork, and takes a deep breath, reaching her hand across the table and placing it on the demon’s in an empathetic gesture.

“Todd,” she says. “Now listen. I don’t know what kind of house your father is running these days, and it’s really not my place to judge. But I want you to know something. This is not your father’s house. This is my house, and here, you don’t have to expect the kind of… well, you don’t have to worry about earning a place in it or feeling like this is some game of tit-for-tat. Sometimes, in my house, people do things for each other because they care about them.” Nana takes moment to squeeze his hand as her smile widens.  
“I don’t expect you to do anything for that cake. It’s a gift. From me to you, because I love you. I want you to enjoy it and know that there’s no obligation waiting at the other side.”

The one she calls Todd is stunned as Nana finishes her oration with a smile and a small pat on his hand. She returns to her cake, picking out another large, awful piece with her fork and then lifting it up in a toast. Todd gingerly grabs the fork, not having actually handled on one in a long time, and scoops up a piece of cake to match Nana’s. Familiar with the human custom of toasting, he reaches across the table and clinks his fork against hers and he places the cake in his mouth.

As it turns out, demons are not made to enjoy cake. As the sucrose hits his taste buds, his regret is immediate and the taste is revolting; he recalls his last encounter when a foolish mortal attempted to poison him, and he is filled with a sudden longing for that instant. However, in spite of the foul flavor and against what he expects of himself, Todd swallows the cake. He looks up at Nana who continues to beam at him, blind as a bat and apparently oblivious to the drama of disgust that played out on Todd’s face. 

“How do you like it?” she asks through her own mouthful of cake, fork poised with a second, heaping bite of sugary confection.

“...delightful,” Todd manages. Nana manages to beam even brighter, and, not wanting to spoil the mood of this odd, gift-giving human who has piqued his interest, Todd grabs another forkful of cake, soggy and stale and riddled with sugar, and places it in his mouth. 

“So what brings you to town?” Nana says through a mouthful of cake.


	3. Ziplocks & Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too many types of plastic bag and burned out demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how writing for an audience, even if the audience is LITERALLY JUST ME, clicks something in my brain that goes, "I must write more! My adoring audience is waiting!!" and the audience (me) like "YES. Write more, I must know WHAT HAPPENS" and I know what I'm thinking, so I go to write thinking about how unfulfilled my online readers (still me) are going to be if I don't continue and it's really weird, but working, so cool??
> 
> I don't trust it to hold. I always figure my scheming tricks out eventually.

After vague lies placate Nana’s need to investigate why “Todd” is in town, Todd finds himself spending the day being doted upon by Nana. She does quite a bit of talking as Todd listens and observes. He tells himself that it’s a day off from his _real_ work; a small vacation, so to speak. Tomorrow, everything will be normal, so he lets himself be lost in the chatter that is Nana. 

He is curled up on the couch with a hot cup of tea delicately cradled between his claws. His spats are kicked off in a corner and his top hat is resting on the coffee table. He has the black and red crocheted blanket draped over his shoulders, his own summoning circle cleverly inset in the pattern. Nana had gone through all of the trouble of looking through some old library books to find a proper occult circle to set into it. The small spatter of Nana’s blood that had dripped on the blanket during an unfortunate accident with a china mug (and consequently summoned Todd) had been scrubbed off the weave. It had apparently been meant as a gift for Todd the Human, but seeing as the ingrate wasn’t present, the demon had accepted it graciously on his behalf. 

Sun is starting to fade from the sky when Nana looks at the oversized dial on her wrist watch. “Oh, heavens, would you look at the time! It’s six thirty and I haven’t even started dinner,” she looks up with an apologetic smile at Todd, “Help a granny out? We’ll have dinner done in a jiffy.”

Todd nods, standing smoothly but refusing to let go of his tea. He’d found the sizzling, bitter liquid was as delectable as the cake had been awful. 

“Off we go then! How does fried chicken and veggies sound to you? My mother knew the _best_ recipe for it and while I can’t quite recreate the performance, I do a darned good imitation,” Nana says as she bustles off to the kitchen with Todd (still wrapped in his blanket) in tow. 

In the kitchen, Nana starts laying out ingredients, meat, some white powder, oil, eggs, and other assorted things Todd does not recognize. There’s also a can of what Nana refers to as vegetables, but Todd has yet to see a plant grow in a can. He pings it experimentally with a talon and is rewarded with a dull clink of metal. 

“Grab me a bag from under the cupboard, will you sweetheart? One of those big plastic ones? No, honey, that’s a grocery bag. It’s a little to the left, in a cardboard box” Todd looks up at her in confusion. _Christ on a cross, how many types of plastic bag could there be? _“It’s the ziplocks, honey. Ziplocks.” Nana scoots over and patiently points to a box, “Right in there, kiddo. Let’s grab two.”

Todd scowls at the box, but plucks two of the gallon plastic bags from it. Stupid bags hiding in boxes. Stupid humans and over complicating simple problems. The scowl deepens. Todd feels stupid, and blaming the eccentricities of humans does nothing to abate the feeling.

“Alright, now, I’ll fill the bags with the spices if you cut the chicken into strips,” Nana smiles and points to a portion of the counter, “Knives are over there.”

Todd’s scowl fades and a slight smile crosses his face. Knives are something he knows. Crossing over to the knife block, he reaches for the largest one, small white daisies covering the handle. Todd pays them no heed; sharp metal is sharp metal, no matter how it’s dressed. He spins it nimbly in his hands and grabs the package of chicken, slicing cleanly through the plastic wrapping. He pulls out a slab of meat and begins butchering it neatly, clean lines, good width, all in all fine…

“Todd!” 

He jumps mid-slice, and spins to face Nana, surprised. To his astonishment, the mild-mannered woman he’s been conversing with all afternoon is looking at him with shock and dismay. Does she know? Did she realize? He clutches the flowered handle of the knife tighter in his hands, weighing grave options.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to use a cutting board? You’re getting cuts all in the countertop!” Todd freezes, mental gears grinding to a halt.

“Cutting...board?”

They look at each other in silence and a mutual lack of understanding. Nana is the first to break the silence. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. The ziplocks should have been a sign.” She moves over to the knife block and from beside it pulls a wooden board, scarred with years of use under a knife. “I just thought that Martha would have at least taught you some kitchen basics. I mean, what kind of…” Nana trails off as she places the sliced chicken on the board. 

She has a look of intense thinking on her face, she finally exhales and adopts a softer expression. She turns from the cutting board to Todd and says, “I don’t know how long you plan on staying here, Todd. I know you’re just passing through. But, I can’t help but to think that you’re missing quite a few skills that would really help any young man along. So, my offer is whenever you’re in the area, swing by and I’ll cook you some food and we can practice some of these...gaps in your knowledge.” She finishes with a broad smile, but Todd can see the sadness and the hope behind her expression. 

He looks away and to the chicken. “I’m sorry about the counter.”

A brief flicker of disappointment crosses Nana’s face at the deflection of the offer, but it’s gone as soon as it came, replaced with her patent smile.

“Oh, darling, don’t fret over that old linoleum. It should have been replaced years ago. Now put that knife in the sink and we’ll get started on the next part.”

The rest of the cooking procedure does not catch Todd’s attention until Nana puts a pan on the stovetop and, with a twist and a click, fire emerges from odd metal bit below. 

“How did you do that?” Todd says, fascinated by the whole procedure. Even where he comes from, summoning fire is something of a neat trick. He would hardly expect a human to replicate such an advanced form of conjuration.

“Do what?” Nana says. Todd nods towards to the small fire beneath the pan. “Oh, light the stove. That’s easy. Well, at least my part is. My old husband Charles could tell you more about the actual mechanism that gets that baby burning, but I’m afraid he passed away ten years ago, God rest his soul.” A brief flicker of discomfort passes over Todd at the small blessing, like a flea crawling on his skin. He shudders but focuses once more on Nana’s stove. 

“Will you show me how?” 

Nana takes Todd by the hand and places it on the stove knob. “Then you twist until you hear the clicking and hold,” she says performing the motions with Todd, “and you move it to the temperature you want after the flame is lit. Don’t leave it on the clicking, because something about gas and explosions. Charles would go on and on about such nonsense. When you want to turn it off, you just turn it like this,” Nana’s hand makes a quick, deft movement and the fire disappears once more. 

As Nana prepares something on the side, Todd really doesn’t care what, he continues to play with the stove, turning it on and off multiple times. _Handy. Might need to install a few in the Infernal Pits. _

“Alright, crank it up as hot as it will go.” Todd does so with confidence as Nana looks over his shoulder, nodding in approval. She pours oil into the pan letting it heat and Todd steps back to where his (now cooled) tea is sitting on the table. From the sliding glass doors to his left, he can see the sun closing in on the horizon, and he frowns. He’ll have to leave soon. He taps his talons gently on the china of the tea cup and feels the weight of the blanket still sitting on his shoulders. With some surprise, he realizes that he doesn’t want to leave.

His thoughts are broken when he hears the soft, intense swearing of Nana. He turns back around and sees her sweating over the can in which the vegetable reside with some sort of turning jaw contraption.

“Blasted, damnable _can opener_, of all days for the electric piece of _shit_ to give out, son of a…” she mutters as her grip on the turning know keeps slipping.

Todd sets down his tea and steps gracefully over to where Nana has set down the jaw tool (“can opener” he guesses) and is glaring at the canned vegetables with as much fury as a sweet old lady in a pink flannel patterned apron can muster.

In that instant, Todd weighs his options. Before Nana can turn around, he steps to her side.

“Will you teach me how this thing works?” he queries.

“You throw it in the trash and set it on fire,” she mutter vehemently, then sighs. “No, it’s quite easy really. You clamp it on the edge of the can and…” she proceeds to demonstrate to Todd how one manages this can opener apparatus, talking him through the whole process.

Without incident, Todd manages to open the can. He is incredibly disappointed when he realizes that the vegetables are not actually _growing_ in the can but have been crudely cut and packaged in their own juices.

“My hero!” Nana declares as she places a small kiss on Todd’s cheek as he examines the contents of the can. “What would I ever have done without you?” Nana grabs the can and dumps the contents into a strainer in the sink with a grin on her face.

“I can come around to help every once and a while, if that’s what you’d like.” Todd states.

Nana freezes, hand poised over the sink, can still gripped in knobby, frail fingers. She turns to look at Todd, and he is stunned with the amount of happiness radiating from her expression.

“I would love that,” she says with the broadest smile she’s worn all day and tears clinging to the corners of her eyes, her small hands clasped around the vacant metal can.

Todd nods and pulls what appears to be a business card from his pocket. Embossed on the back is his summoning circle, but the front is almost blank, the color of parchment. If one could look closely, one would see that there are swirling sigils and glyphs coursing across the yellowed paper, tiny but laden with demonic meaning.

“Could you write your name and phone number on here?” He taps the clear side with a delicate talon and extends a fountain pen towards Nana with an inkling of regret on his face.

“Certainly love! What a pretty pen. It fits your aesthetic.” She takes the card and writes in red ink “Nana” and number in her shaky hand writing, then extends the pen and card back to Todd.

Todd tucks the items back in his vest and removes the blanket from his shoulders. “I’m afraid that I have to leave now. It’s later than I thought and I have someplace to be.” Nana looks crestfallen, opening her mouth to protest that he stay at least until dinner is finished so Todd can take some leftovers home, but before she can say anything, Todd extends the blanket towards her.

“Will you hold onto this until next time?” he asks. Nana reaches out and takes the blanket, sad smile on her face, “Until next time,” she replies.

Todd gives her a small kiss on the cheek and she drags him into a hug. He feels awkward at first, but lets himself sink into the embrace.

“Would next Saturday morning be too soon?” he asks.

He thinks that Nana will crush the life out of him the way that her arms tighten around him. “I’ll make sure the kettle is on!” she replies.


	4. Bad Choices & Rash Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought you were going to escape this story without detailed scenes of demonic bureaucracy, you're wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jessica for letting me bounce ideas off of her; she's a great friend and really got me excited for the direction this story is going!

Returning to his office is always something of an adventure with Canix’s unpredictable moods, but today, Jezir anticipates, will be exceptional.

“WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS IS HAVE YOU DONE?” a smaller demon screeches as it storms across the empty office space to where Jezir just manifested. It is carrying a bundle of paper in its deep blue arms, but its eyes blaze as red as the mess of hair on its head. Its pointed tail swishes angrily much like a cat’s.

Jezir seems unfazed and looks down his nose at the redheaded demon. “I was rendered services by…” Jezir flips pulls the signed contract-card out of his coat pocket and examines the name that has appeared underneath the scrawl of Nana, “Annette Townsend. It is her right by the Sell-Souls Code of 1288 that she was paid. As her service that was not negotiated prior to its rendering, she is entitled to name her price. She named it.”

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER SHE TAUGHT YOU TO OPEN A CAN.”

“And for the record, the first order of business in such a situation is to throw it into a trash bin and set it alight.” Jezir smiles placidly and extends the signed card toward the other.

He grips a seemingly random section of the massive amount of paperwork piled in his arms. “CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGED TO AT LEAST 50 HOURS A MONTH OF SERVITUDE.” He grabs another apparently random phrase, “DUTIES ASSIGNED AS SEEN FIT. Seen fit? SEEN FIT!? We are in the business of bartering FOR souls, not BARTERING AWAY OUR OWN.” The small, angry demon throws all the paperwork on the ground and lowers his voice to a deadly hiss, “_And all this is, and I quote, until the death of one party or the other_,” his voice slowly rises to a deafening cacophony, “_This will be the _shortest contract we have ever fulfilled because I WILL KILL YOU MYSELF!”

It snatches the contract-card from Jezir and begins folding the paperwork on the floor in improbable ways until the whole mass is small enough to be stapled to the back of the card. It goes to its desk in the small office and, with as much angry panache as it can muster, staples the signed card to the contract it agrees to. It sails to the one of the demonic rolodexes on the desk and flips through as if he was spinning a roulette wheel, then jams the small card into one of the open spaces. After this is done, it plops into its chair, crosses its arms, and glares at Jezir.

“Are you quite done?”

“No. Yes. Maybe, but probably not. That was fucking dumb. This will completely fuck our average.”

One corner of Jezir’s mouth twists downward at the notion. Canix is right; while he is greatly anticipating a break, he is not looking forward to the quarterly review now that such a low-value deal has been made. Va’al, the branch manager, was very rarely forgiving about these things.

“Well,” Jezir replies, “we’ll just have to work overtime to secure additional, valuable contracts.”

Canix threads a long fingered, knobby hand through its hair. “And where, exactly, oh thoughtful one, are we going to secure such leads? If we’re being honest with ourselves, we should probably put in for a transfer to the Infernal Pits before Va’al leans how bad we fucked up to save her the trouble.”

Jezir turns to the hellscape outside the office window. In the far distance, he can make out the red light of the Pits streaming from the horizon, far past the crude towers and spires that crest the skyline. Even here, in the heart of the city, he can smell the stench wafting from those endless tunnels that lead to the bowels of Hell. From the office window, he swears he can hear screams echoing from the Pits that are considered damned by the damned. Jezir self-consciously picks at a button on his fine shirt. “I can’t have blundered that badly,” he says, suddenly unsure of himself.

Canix grumbles so low it’s almost a growl and pulls a folder out of a file labelled ‘Projections Forms.’

“I’m always telling you to stop doubting yourself. Have a little faith in your ability to fuck up just like the rest of us,” Canix opens the folder and taps a pointed fingernail on the topmost page. The papers shiver and move, starting to swirl around Canix’s body, lettering lighting up on each page as they dance around at an increasingly frenzied pace. Canix’s skin begins to change too; red lettering appears on its arms as it extends its hands into the paper tornado ensconcing it. Its eyes begin to shine scarlet. Almost imperceptibly, the papers begin to consolidate, merging into one another as Canix’s fingers twitch and orchestrate the assembly of infernal data.

At last, only once page is left hovering between Canix’s outstretched hands. The glow on its skin fades and its eyes dim. It takes the now limp paper in one hand and extends it towards Jezir, who takes it.

His eyes scan the page as dread begins to make itself comfortable in the hollow of his belly.

“This number here,” Canix points, a manic smile pasted on its face, “Is where our projections were this morning. You will note that we are placed in the top 3% of this branch’s Faustian Division. _The top 3% Jezir_. We were on track for promotion and a soul allotment increase!

“Now,” Canix points to another figure, “If you will direct your attention _here_,” it viciously jabs the parchment with a bony finger, “You may notice a _slight_ difference. We have, how you say, _tanked_, and are now placed in the _bottom 25%_ for a _negative value deal_ and are on track for Va’al to decide she likes us better as trophy heads in her office or as stinking imps slaving away in the Pits. No soul allotment. No chance for promotion,” it turns its unblinking red eyes on Jezir and hisses, “No more human goods imports like those ridiculous pajamas you claim not to wear.”

“They are classy, silk pajamas and just because you have no taste does not mean they are ridiculous.”

“They are pajamas, ergo useless and superfluous.”

Jezir makes a small ‘tch,’ noise before crumpling the paper and tossing it in the incineration bin. “Either way, the situation is momentary. I can correct this,” he says, hiding his concern under a veneer of composure. Canix looks doubtful, but before it can speak, Jezir says, “I intend to pay Morook a visit.”


	5. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief announcement from your captain

I write this for those of you who have expressed interest in the continuation of this work. Let me start by saying that I fully intend to write the first draft all the way through and on AO3 as well as Wattpad.

However! I wanted to let you all know that there will most likely be a break of indeterminable length between this chapter and the next one. I may post tidbits, but I am in the process of world-building and story outlining. To make a nice, tight, storyline, that will take some time. 

I am very excited about this project! Don't mistake my absence for disinterest; I am actively meeting with another writer to bounce ideas off of and to build a better narrative, world, and characters to bring to this story. If she ever posts something about her story, I will post it here. 

Thanks again and I hope to post something new sooner rather than later


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